Chapter Text
In his twenty-four years of life, Peter realizes—at this moment as he’s slammed against the concrete wall for the fifth consecutive time with the same stupid gravity gun—he’s never truly appreciated blissful ignorance. That he’s never realized how much of a curse knowledge can be. That some things are better off left a mystery.
What should only be breaking a light sweat, something that should be second nature like stopping a Sunday night robbery, is suddenly impossible. He’s slow. Sloppy. Distracted. His focus is shot entirely.
All because he knows .
He knows something he really should have never learned in the first place, even if it was against his will.
Maybe he should have covered his ears, maybe he should have pretended to get something from the bar.
But no.
His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and just like the cat—he’s dead.
Well, almost. He’s probably going to be if he doesn’t shape the fuck up and actually pay attention to the goons he’s fighting. He’s already managed to web two of them to the walls, the bags of jewelry they’d tried to make off with secured and safe. The other three he can get—again, that’s if he can get his shit together and stop thinking about MJ for one second—it’s the one with the God damn gravity gun that’s giving him the most trouble, throwing him against every corner of the building, through every panel of glass.
He cringes, thinking about how much property damage he’s inadvertently caused once again.
All because his brain won’t just fucking let go of what MJ had said the other night.
God, get a Grip, Parker .
But how can he? How can he pull himself together when he’s so cursed with knowledge? When the weight of enlightenment feels like it’s crushing his shoulders? When he knows too much?
Felicia’s eyes are gleaming with something that can’t be good, her lips pulled into a mischievous smirk as she quickly slides back into her chair, her beer now refilled. “Don’t look now, but Brad’s at the bar with some of his friends.”
Three of them—Gwen, Cindy, and Peter—look at once in the direction that Felicia had just come from, as if they hadn’t heard a thing she’d said. MJ snorts softly, shaking her head as she hides her amusement behind a sip of her bramble. Peter doesn’t miss the way she rolls her eyes, the warning look she gives at Felicia’s teasing grin.
“Brad?” Cindy asks for clarification, though she very clearly knows that it is, indeed, him. She too, is just fucking with MJ.
Felicia’s smirk grows. “Brad,” she replies, taking a sip of her beer.
“Is it… Is it Brad?” Gwen pipes in, unable to hide her tipsy giggle behind her own glass.
Amusement flickers in Peter’s chest, his lips twisting to mask his smile as he gently nudges MJ underneath the table with his foot. “I think it might be Brad.”
Her expression matches his own.
A beat passes, before the table bursts into a fit of barely-suppressed snorts and poorly-contained laughter.
It’s a nice thing to be able to be so lighthearted about running into a friend’s ex while doing the weekly Girls Night (and Peter)™ out, nice that the break-up wasn’t so terrible that it’d bring MJ’s entire evening crashing down, that they can joke about it.
They always have fun when the five of them go out. Cindy and Gwen being friends they’d both picked up in undergrad, Felicia also being MJ’s first roommate—that also happened to be one of Peter’s on-and-off-again flings back in the day. They’d all managed to stay in touch in the two years since graduation, Peter and MJ now being the staple roommates of the group.
Again, MJ rolls her eyes, though the faint, upward tick of her lips is impossible to hide. “I don’t see why this is important information,” she quips dryly with another pointed look before her gaze wanders over to the bar.
Perhaps for a little too long.
“Oh, no,” Felicia says, leaning forward on the table, shout-whispering. “You are not fucking him tonight. Absolutely fucking not!”
Michelle stares back, jaw dropped in amused surprise as everyone else tries to hold back their tipsy giggles. “I wasn’t even thinking about it!”
“Good!”
Peter sucks in a breath, shaking his head, trying to forget the faint relief he’d felt. Focus.
Closing his eyes a moment, he listens, zoning in on the faintest scuff of a shoe against the concrete, ten feet away behind the corner. A beat passes, Peter popping out from his spot and shooting a blast of webbing at the thief. “Peek-a-boo!”
The thief swears, yelling in surprise as he’s knocked back and stuck against the wall.
One down, two more to go.
“Why would you think I’d wanna hook up with him?” MJ eyes everyone suspiciously. “We broke up, like six months ago.”
Peter takes a drink of his beer, his face warm—from the alcohol, obviously.
It’s quiet, fingers drumming against the sides of drinks and the slightly wet tabletop, the chorus of music and drunken laughter still booming around them.
“It’s just…” Cindy starts, swirling the straw in her drink. “We know that everything was mutual and all, and that it’s all fine, but…” she pauses. “I don’t know, you still seem kinda down about that whole thing. Like, you haven’t really put yourself out there yet.”
Michelle huffs out a laugh. “While I appreciate the concern, you guys really don’t need to worry. I just… haven’t really felt like dating again? I dunno. It’s just a lot of work, you know? Finding someone and just… getting to know them all over again. Ugh.”
“We love you, babe,” Felicia says, her words slurring the slightest bit, holding out her hand for MJ to take while everyone else nods thoroughly. “We just want you to be happy. We want you to get some ass.”
MJ laughs, taking Felicia’s outstretched hand. “Thanks.” A beat. “It does suck, though,” she relents. “Because I do sometimes miss just being with someone you know?”
“In a relationship?” Gwen asks.
MJ nods, though she wiggles her hand from side to side. “Kinda? Like, obviously I don’t need a relationship to be a complete person… but…”
Peter almost misses his shot entirely from his hiding spot on the ceiling, watching the goons tiptoe across the floor with their guns pointed—seriously, they walk right over his little web-grenade trap and he almost fucking lets them .
He scrambles to set it off, relieved when they’re still within the grenade’s reach and plastered against the floor.
“Ohhhhhhhh, you guys!” He shouts, dropping from his spot on the ceiling, laughing. “It’s a prank! Got you! I got you! Oh, man, you should’ve seen the looks on your faces!” He shakes his head, holding his stomach before putting his hands on his hips, serious again.
Or, well, as serious as Spider-Man usually is.
He bends down, opening one of the bags to check the inventory, millions of dollars worth of diamonds staring back at him.
Peter gasps, a hand on his chest. “Paul, you shouldn’t have. Wow.” Then, serious again. “No, really. You shouldn’t have. It’s illegal.” He crouches, ignoring the man—now named Paul—cursing him out. “Y’know, folks swing for robbin’ jewelry,” he adds with a fake southern twang before slipping back into his normal voice. “I’m just kidding. They’re not gonna hang you. I don’t think. But you will go to jail. Sorry about that. I don’t really know much about the law, I’m the vigilante here—”
“God, will you shut up—”
“—But I do know that stealing is bad sometimes.”
“God, I miss being eaten out.”
Her drunken confession is met with a sudden burst of laughter from the entire table, almost to tears.
And that’s the exact moment where Peter’s brain short-circuits. It’s a miracle he hears anything after this. For some reason, as close as he and MJ have always been, as many times as they’ve talked over the nitty-gritty of their love lives together, somehow he can’t seem to get past the idea of MJ being eaten out, of MJ enjoying it. His brain will not let go of it. The words are out there, they’ve wormed their way into his head, and they are sticking in his subconscious, never to leave again.
Why? He has no idea.
MJ’s his friend.
One of his best friends in the entire world.
“...And Brad was good at it,” she says, a distant look in her eyes that Peter pretends not to notice as she stares at her drink.
Felicia snorts, covering her mouth to keep any beer from spilling. After recovering, she grins, folding her arms across her chest, raising a brow. “You don’t need to be in a relationship for that.”
MJ rolls her eyes, laughing. “I know… but… I’m also like, not into hook-ups.” A shrug as her lips twist in thought. “I never have been.”
“Fair,” Felicia relents.
The sirens in the distance are close now, giving Peter his cue to leave. With a single wave that the criminals no doubt can’t actually see, he leaps through the open skylight, immediately hit with the chilled November air.
Though it’s not as if he can feel it, given how almost unbearably warm he is underneath his suit right now. Curse Girls Night™ and curse himself for being reduced to some hormonal teenager at the mention of oral sex and his best friend. He misses his second swing—just narrowly pancaking into the side of the next building before he catches himself.
Honestly, he’s done enough for tonight—he stopped a robbery, diamonds worth millions. He just needs to go home and go to bed. To forget he’d ever been at that bar in the first place.
That, or maybe blow off some steam.
Yeah, that could help.
“How long has it been?” Cindy finally asks.
A beat. MJ winces. “Six months?”
“Six months??” Felicia asks, appalled.
Which, honestly, come to think of it, Peter’s pretty shocked, too. Six months?
It’s criminal. It’s outrageous. How could she have gone half a year without…?
Felicia slaps her hand on the table. “That’s it. We’re getting you laid. There’s gotta be someone in this bar.”
Immediately, MJ waves her off, her gaze catching Peter’s briefly. “God, no. No. I don’t want… I don’t wanna hook up. I’m good.”
“You don’t have to hook up!” Gwen reasons. “Just… start getting to know someone, maybe!”
MJ sighs, shrinking back into her seat, arms crossed, almost shy. “I don’t really wanna do that either…”
Everyone at the table gets quiet again, stuck in contemplation. Felicia sighs, shaking her head. “Okay, fine. No hook-ups. We just wanna help.”
“I know,” MJ replies. “Seriously. But—I’m having fun now, with you guys. I don’t need anyone else!”
“You seem lonely,” Cindy says, yelping when Gwen kicks her under the table. “Ow! What?”
At that, MJ lets out a single laugh, her face scrunches as she tilts her head. “What? I’m not… I’m not lonely.” she says, scoffing. She throws a thumb at her roommate. “I have Peter.”
Oddly, his heart skips. The buzz of the alcohol has his cheeks tinted red. He grins, leaning forward on his elbows as he turns his head to meet her eyes. “Aw—”
“Oh?” Felicia cocks a brow, staring pointedly. “Does Peter eat you out?”
It was a bad idea to take a drink of his beer, because it’s all over his chin now as he nearly chokes on it. Everyone erupts in tipsy, shocked laughter, MJ included—though she seems to be doing everything she can to avoid eye contact with him as she fixes Felicia with a glare tinted in disbelief. “FEL.”
“FELICIA.”
Peter glances at MJ, chuckling breathily at their jinx.
“What?” Felicia asks, not at all innocent, unable to hide the laugh in her tone as Gwen and Cindy snicker. She barely reacts to MJ kicking her under the table. “I’m just asking—you know?”
“I—I don’t… I don’t eat MJ out,” Peter, for some God-forsaken reason, feels the need to clarify. Because obviously, he doesn’t. He never has. They’re friends. And friends don’t just randomly go down on each other.
The thought’s never even crossed his mind.
“Maybe you should,” Cindy says with a tip of her drink, trying to maintain a straight face as a serious suggestion, but failing miserably, her smile giving her away. “You’re not some stranger!”
“Oh, yeah,” MJ replies, tone dripping in sarcasm, though there’s a breathlessness to her words. “That’s a great idea. Why didn’t… why didn’t I think of that?”
Should he be hurt that she’d written the idea off so quickly? No, probably not. Again, they’re just friends. Best friends. Roommates. It’s not something they’d ever entertained, nor should they have. Still, the thought sticks with him—in all sorts of ways—following him throughout the day, at May’s, at home, and even now, on patrol.
Because now, Peter knows two things to be sure.
One, MJ hasn’t been eaten out in six months.
And two, he can’t stop thinking about how MJ hasn’t been eaten out in six months.
And then Felicia and Cindy had to put that damn idea in his head of him being the one to alleviate that.
It’s left him offhandedly wondering things that he shouldn’t be thinking about while trying to stop crime and help people. It’s like a song that’s stuck in his head, refusing to leave. It plays over and over on an endless loop that has his mind swimming with thoughts of things that should be reserved specifically for hot showers and sleepless nights. Things like what she might sound like, the noises she might make. The tiny micro-expressions on her face as she nears her release, whether or not she bites her lip like when she’s thinking, if the slight furrow in her brow is the same.
What she tastes like—
His stomach drops, his suit beginning to feel the slightest bit too tight. He swallows.
Yeah. He needs to get home. Now. Ten minutes ago.
A distracted Spider-Man is a useless Spider-Man.
There’s the tiniest sense of relief underneath these layers of horny confusion when he sees their apartment building in the distance. He’s almost home. Almost free. In less than five minutes, he can take a cold shower and exorcise these thoughts plaguing his mind. Because even if it was a joke, he should absolutely not be thinking that way about his best friend.
Sure, MJ’s beautiful. Stunning. Literally anyone with eyes can see that. And she’s hilarious. And a genius. But again, that’s all a given; the sky is blue, grass is green, MJ’s a perfect ten. None of that means that he should be this hung up on the idea of his head buried between her legs, his mouth at her—
NO .
It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t been eaten out in six months, or that she misses it. That doesn’t mean he’s gonna be the one to do it. That’s not his job. No matter how criminal it is.
Though, if she asked…
Again. NO.
That’s not something he should even begin to consider.
Because she’s not going to ask him. Not in a million years. MJ doesn’t think about him like that.
That’s the kinda shit that only happens in porn.
But, hypothetically, if she were to ask… What would he say? Would he risk ruining their friendship forever all for a chance to see if reality matches up to what’s in his brain? But then, hypothetically, if she did ask, and he did say yes, would it really be enough to ruin a nearly ten-year friendship? Especially if they were able to separate themselves enough to prevent any feelings? They’re both adults, surely they could. And besides, Peter’s fairly confident that their relationship is strong enough to last through whatever’s thrown at it.
Him—hypothetically—eating her out wouldn’t change anything.
It’d just be friendly favor. Between friends.
Nothing else.
Hypothetically .
It’s nothing he should be worrying about, though, because—and he cannot stress this enough —it’s not going to happen. He knows this, that he’ll be over everything in a few days. It’ll be something he looks back on and laughs, maybe even jokes about. It’s fine. It’s all fine.
He tells himself this as he climbs through his window. There’s a slight shake, a jitteriness to his movements as he yanks a pair of sweats, a plain t-shirt, some boxers, and the still unfolded towel from the pile of clean laundry on his bed. He nearly trips over his own feet speed-walking to the door and out into the hallway.
A nice shower will help, he reasons. A nice ten minutes under some scalding hot water will clear his mind.
But then—he hears it, a voice so quiet that only someone with stupid enhanced hearing could pick up.
A voice that unmistakably belongs to one Felicia Hardy on the other end of a FaceTime call.
“—I’m serious, I know a guy, MJ.”
“Please, stop—”
“—He can help you out!”
Peter immediately shakes his head. It’s one thing to be thinking about her, it’s another to be listening to her conversations with one of their friends. God, he shouldn’t be doing this, he knows, but it’s not like he can help it.
Maybe he should just leave.
Go back on patrol.
“Fel, I’m literally begging you—”
“—He’d be more than happy to volunteer, I’m sure. Just ask!”
“I’m not asking him!”
The grin on Felicia’s face is almost audible. “Why not?”
“You know why.”
“No, actually. I’m afraid I don’t. Please enlighten me.”
“Peter’s my friend!”
He sucks in a breath, his already racing heart quickening, jaw tightening. Yeah, he should definitely leave. Come back later. Or never.
“Please, it’s not like you’ve never thought about it. Didn’t you have that one dream?”
A beat. He might pass out.
“Shut up.”
Okay, now he really might.
“You could literally just ask. That boy would be fucking ecstatic.” She chuckles. “Like I said, highly recommend. He’s great. A real ten outta ten. Very giving.”
Another beat.
“You’re the worst,” MJ replies with exasperated fondness.
If Peter weren’t internally freaking the fuck out right now, he’d be touched that Felicia’s speaking so highly of him. Granted, it’s for his oral skills, but still. It’s nice to know.
But the feeling doesn’t surface, only panic and adrenaline rising in him when he hears MJ get up from her chair, when he hears her footsteps getting closer to the door. HIs brain having jumped out of their seventh-story window, his panic manifests itself as he makes a dead sprint to his room.
“Do it!”
“It’s not like I can just ask him—”
Shit shit shit SHITSHITSHIT.
He’s just barely made it there, his hand just reaching the knob when the creak of her door cuts through the thick silence of the apartment.
“Oh! Peter!” She stops dead in her tracks, nearly dropping her phone as she stares at him with comically wide eyes. A wavey smile stretches across her face as she lets out a breathy chuckle. “H-Hey.”
“Hi, Peter,” Felicia’s all-too-knowing voice says on the other line.
God, he can hear that smug grin on her face.
He does the only thing he thinks his body can actually manage right now; he gives a lame wave with the hand not clutching his change of clothes and towel to his chest, a sheepish smile. “Hey.” He breathes out a laugh. “Just uh—just getting home.”
It’s then as his soul comes back to his body that he glances down, though it proves to be a mistake. It’s not unusual for MJ to be walking around in just a fluffy robe. They’ve been comfortable around each other for long enough that it’s never really bothered him.
Until now.
Because now he can’t help but notice how the neckline almost dips to the valley between her breasts, how the hem just barely reaches her mid-thigh, how one wrong move and he’s sure he could see the lace trim of her underwear. He swallows, throwing a thumb over his shoulder as he walks back to the bathroom. “Was gonna… hop in the shower.”
At first, MJ only nods, lips pressing into a tight smile. The warning glare she gives Felicia on her screen is impossible to miss.
“Have fun,” she says anyway.
Peter doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to die more than right at this moment.
A beat passes where he wonders if he’d been wrong.
If it’s actually this moment as they stand there in complete, soul-crushing silence.
Because there’s absolutely no-fucking-way she believes that he just got home right? That he wasn’t just standing in the hallway, listening to her very private conversation with a friend? No, she has to know now that he heard everything, that he knows.
He laughs, a strained, tight sound as he opens the bathroom door behind him, finding it damn near impossible to tear his eyes from hers. “Okay, uh. Yeah. Gonna… Gonna shower now.” He nearly chokes on his own words, swallowing thickly as his hand grips the doorknob.
He wonders how mad their landlord would be if they had to replace it, if they’d still get their security deposit back if they fixed it early.
Michelle nods again as she huffs out a laugh, her gaze burning into his. “Sounds good.”
With another thumbs up—for some fucking reason —Peter escapes into the bathroom, the door slamming behind him as he leans against it, struggling to catch his breath. He takes a moment to recuperate, to collect himself, roughly carding a hand through his hair. There have been countless times when he’s been out in the world, getting his ass absolutely handed to him, getting the shit beaten out of him by the worst of the worst, he flirts with death on a daily basis…
But he doesn’t think his life’s ever flashed before his eyes quite like that .
He slaps the button against his chest with a bit more force than usual, his suit pooling at his feet, tangling in his legs as he tries to kick it across the tile. The relief at the sudden release of pressure is short-lived, immediately replaced by a burning shame that flares in his chest at the fact that he’s still hard.
Bad, Peter.
No, Peter.
He deserves at least a thousand years in horny jail.
He lets out a frustrated sigh as he flips on the water, immediately regretting everything as he steps under the still-cold stream. Standing in the corner, waiting for the water to warm, he turns to bang his head against the shower wall, eyes screwed shut as he desperately tries to go back to being no thoughts, head empty. He doesn’t want to be thinking about any of this, instead trying to focus on the way the water’s getting hotter, the way it might be able to burn his skin off if he stands there long enough.
The steam fills his lungs as he sucks in a breath, as he moves to stand underneath the showerhead, wetting his hair. Bracing himself against the wall, his hand beside the faucet, he lets the water cascade down his back.
But every time he closes his eyes, it all comes back. He thinks about everything.
About MJ.
About how she might look all spread out for him.
About his head between her legs, her thighs squeezing, pressing against his cheeks, wondering how soft they’d feel under his touch.
About her hand in his hair, roughly tangled in his curls, yanking and tugging as she gets closer and closer.
About how she’d sound moaning his name, how she’d sound telling him how good he’s doing, how good he’s making her feel.
About how she might taste, and how he’s somehow always wanted to know.
Even more frustration wells within him, his jaw clenched as he reaches a hand down to wrap around himself.
Fuck , he’s screwed.